They were very near the front trench now; the whole ridge near the lighthouse and to the left of them was almost continuously outlined by the flashes of incessant musketry.
Bubbles panted--his ear-drums were splitting--the little servant was catching his breath with half-frightened gulps. Then they cannoned against a bend in the trench, and were going on, when a gruff voice sang out: "Put it down here! Keep your heads down, damn you! Cut away back for more!"
The Lamp-post joined them, breathing hard, and together, empty-handed, they ran back as fast as the narrowness of the trench and the darkness would allow them; the noise of the bullets coming along from behind, and pinging round their ears, making them go faster.
Those two field-guns began firing just about then, lighting up the whole place with the glare of their flash, so that they could see, every time they fired, the trench in front of them, and the "drawn" faces of the men coming along it with more ammunition-boxes.
The noise of these guns and their bursting shrapnel was most comforting. They realized then why it is that soldiers so love the sound of supporting guns.
They regained the gully, dashed down it, and got hold of more ammunition. Each of the midshipmen put a box on his shoulder this time, and left the little servant to bring up a case by himself as best he could. On their way along the trench, at a place where it was deep and narrow, they had to push past two men crouching together.
"What's the matter? What are you doing?" they asked, taking a breather.
"We're wounded," they answered in a dull, stupid way.
"Well, don't block up the place. Get away back to the beach."
When they returned, these two were still there.
The Lamp-post had tripped over their feet and their rifles, and they blocked the trench.
"Where are you wounded?" he asked savagely.
"In the arm," one said, holding his right arm; the other growled sullenly that he'd been hit in the shoulder.
Like lightning the Lamp-post pulled up the man's sleeve and his shirt-sleeve, and ran his fingers up the arm. He tore open the other man's tunic, and passed his hand under his shirt and over his shoulder--felt nothing--felt no blood on his hands--looked at them as a field-gun flashed, and found none.